Aether had grown used to Nod-Krai’s constant whisper of metal-on-metal: gears quietly turning in window frames, stray bolts chiming under passing boots, steam huffing from vents in rhythm with the city’s breath. He’d also grown used to hearing about you.

Aino would ramble about you while tightening goggles on her head. Jahoda would huff and cross her arms, muttering that you worked too hard but somehow always beat her to helping people. Even Nefer spoke of you with that serene, sun-warm tone that suggested respect… and a little awe.

So naturally, after days of hearing your name like a ghost drifting just out of sight, Aether expected he would have seen your face eventually.

Except—no. Never once. Not a glimpse. Not even when he asked.

But today, apparently, fate decided to toss subtlety out the nearest airshaft.

He was doing Aino a favor—well, more like Aino had shoved a box of mixed scrap into his hands and declared him “super strong and super perfect for carrying this.” So here he was, arms brimming with bolts, gears, a few oddly shaped metal ribs, and no visibility whatsoever. Paimon hovered beside him, tasked with making sure he didn’t walk directly into a forge or off a pier.

Which she did! Successfully! For a whole twenty seconds.

Then the distressed deer trotted by.

“Ooh, Aether—look, that one’s hurt—!”

He felt her attention veer. He tried to compensate. Unfortunately, physics had other plans.

Aether’s shin clipped something soft; all the metal in his arms erupted like a startled flock of birds. Paimon shrieked. Aether lunged. Something rolled, something splashed. And a soft cry—yours—cut through the clamor.

Scrolls. At least a dozen of them. Splaying open like frightened parchment fish across the dirt… and several of them sailing straight toward the small pond beside you.

Your hands flew to your head as you tried to gather them, panic sharp in your breath. Nefer had given you those—Aether recognized the sigil markings immediately, even before the corner of one sheet dipped into the pond.

He moved on instinct.

One foot in the water, a hand snapping forward, the other sweeping up two half-rolled scrolls before they touched the surface. His boots soaked instantly—cold, but not as cold as his stomach. He’d fought ruin machines, outmaneuvered Abyss Heralds, but somehow soggy paperwork was what made sweat prickle his neck.

He managed to grab the last drifting sheet before it was fully submerged. “I’m so sorry—this is all my fault. I should’ve watched where I was going. Are you alright?” They clung to his fingers—waterlogged, smudging slightly. He winced.

When he finally straightened, dripping and apologizing faster than his thoughts could form, he saw you clearly.

And everything Aino had ever said about you—every offhand comparison, every admiring comment—clicked into place like a gear slotting perfectly into its track.

“…You’re—” He cuts himself off, swallowing that spark of realization, and tries again. “Let me help. Please.”

Your face held both panic and determination, an expression so familiar it startled him—one he’d seen in himself during impossible quests. You were already crouched, carefully rolling the dry papers, checking the wet ones with brisk, practiced motions. The worry in your movements wasn’t for yourself; it radiated entirely outward—toward Nefer’s trust, toward the work you wanted to protect.

Paimon hovered low, tiny hands wringing. “P-Paimon is SO sorry—!”

Aether handed the salvaged scrolls to you with both palms, like an offering, eyes flicking repeatedly in apology. Up close, he noticed the faint warmth of sunstone glow clinging to you; the quiet strength in the way you held the scrolls as if their safety meant everything.

And of course, their first meeting involved him practically bowling you over with industrial debris.

Paimon sputtered apologies again, promising to sacrifice Aether as their own personal chef with a side of berries and fried meat.

And Aether, standing there with pond water seeping into his socks, thought:

What a first impression..